


If you never say the words

by thesecretsix



Series: Stark White 'verse [4]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Family, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Post RWBY Volume 3, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 10:45:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6515014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesecretsix/pseuds/thesecretsix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What price do you pay to pretend that the worst parts of your life never happened? </p><p>“Tell me a story, uncle, about my mother. About Summer, I mean, not Raven.” Maybe that’s the most difficult thing she could have asked you to do. Somehow, she’s found the one thing in your life you’re the most afraid to face and demanded you overcome it. </p><p>April 2016 /r/RWBY Moncon entry</p>
            </blockquote>





	If you never say the words

…

 

**I.**

 

...

 

Ruby Rose lies unconscious, just as she has for the past three weeks and five days. You sit at her bedside, just as you have for the past three weeks and five days.

 

You force yourself to keep this vigil. Somebody has to, and Taiyang’s busy with his other daughter. That’s alright, she needs him right now and you’ve always related a bit more to little Ruby anyways.

 

She looks so small laid out like this, so vulnerable, so innocent. It just drives home for you how young she still is.

 

It’s only been two years since you taught her how to wield that scythe of hers. It’s almost impossible for you to imagine her as some sort of savior of humanity, some sort of champion of righteousness. Not as she is right now.

 

You knew it was coming. You knew her mother well enough to understand exactly what it means to be born with silver eyes. You just didn’t think it would come so soon.

 

You always imagined Ruby coming into her heritage a few years down the road. Well after she’d reached her full stature and maturity, well after she’d graduated from Beacon Academy. You thought she’d have a chance to grow up before things got bad.

 

It’s funny how you didn’t have these misgivings when you talked to Pyrrha Nikos, tried to convince her to embrace another’s brutal destiny, and sent her to her death. Maybe it was easier then and there, with Ozpin playing the kindly old man, with Jimmy and Glynda at your side helping to shoulder the burden. Maybe it was easier before Beacon fell, when it felt like you were fighting the good fight and actually winning. Maybe the two years Pyrrha had on Ruby made her an adult in your eyes, somehow qualified to make the sacrifice you needed.

 

Ruby always wanted to be a hero, to save a world that she saw as desperately needing saving. It reminds you so much of her mother.

 

But now as you look at your niece, as you remember what she looked like when you retrieved her from the wreckage of Beacon Tower, all you can think of is how her mother died.

 

Totally shattered, a broken shell of herself, completely powerless.  

 

Isolated and alone.

 

As if by reflex, your hand finds the worn leather flask in your hip pocket. You have a method for dealing with these memories, with the pain they always bring. For anyone else, unscrewing the cap using only a thumb-- without even looking at the container-- might be a major feat of dexterity. For you, it’s just habit. You let the rotgut burn its way down your throat, doing its part to distract you from the things that matter.

 

The silence begins to hurt your ears, so you try to fill it.

 

“Can I tell you a story, Ruby?”

 

She doesn’t respond. Of course she doesn’t. You tell her the story anyways.

 

“Do you know how I met your father? I don’t think he’d have told you this one, since he comes out looking like a total dumbass. It was actually on our first day at Beacon, we’d just gotten off the bullhead…”

 

It’s easy to get lost in your story, in the happier days of your youth. Back before you lost everything. Maybe it’s the whiskey, but now that you’ve started talking it’s so easy to keep going. Before you know it an hour’s passed. You’re so deep in your memories that you don’t even hear the door creak open behind you.

 

“And then the big idiot says, ‘Maybe if I let it eat me-”

 

“I could burn it up from the inside.” Taiyang, hovering just behind you, finishes the quote and startles you half-to-death in the process.

 

“Tai,” you say, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

 

But he ignores you in favor of continuing the story, a nostalgic grin on his face. “Then you call me an idiot again and ask me why the hell I don’t carry any ranged weapons. So we start to argue like the dumb kids we were, and that giant nevermore decides we’re just too annoying to eat.”

 

You’re smiling too now, and with a chuckle you pick up the tale. “So it just flies away. Meanwhile, we’re just shoving each other around at this point. I remember I was thinking something like ‘we’re already in the woods, so it’d be really easy to hide his body and look for a new partner’ when suddenly-”

 

“You push me into the foliage and my hair catches the goddamned forest on fire. You just start screaming.”

 

“Some of us weren’t born fireproof, Tai.”

 

You share a laugh. “Excuses, excuses,” he says, dismissing your completely valid and oft-quoted complaint. Ah, the hazards of working with a human bonfire for most of your life.

 

“So you’re just standing there in the blaze like a total dumbass and I’m running for my life, the fire’s rapidly spreading, and I literally run into Sum-” You hit a dead end with your story, a road you’re just not willing to go down. Your scrabbling hand finds the flask again.

 

Taiyang notices, you’re sure of it, how could he not, but he bravely tries to pick up the story and push through this. “She runs straight into the fire, totally not realizing that I’m unharmed.”

 

“No,” you hear yourself say, as if from far away. “I just can’t do this. Sorry.”

 

Maybe Taiyang says something back, you don’t know.

 

You get up and walk out, out of the room, out of the house. You find your wings and fly away.

 

…

 

**II.**

 

…

 

You stand on a cliff and watch Ruby set off towards Mistral with what’s left of team JNPR. It’s almost cute how they think they’re sneaking out, as if you hadn’t meant to drop Ruby the hint that prompted their journey.

 

Maybe the four teenagers will find something you couldn’t. They’re dangerously determined, they’ve had a taste of defeat and they yearn to even the score.

 

As they disappear into the rising sun, you shift to your avian form and make your way back to the house.

 

Taiyang greets you at the front door by slugging you in the face. You’ve known his fists to shatter a goliath’s skull; even when he’s pulling his punches the force of his blow knocks you to the ground. “How can you just let her go off on her own?” he demands.

 

You don’t bother getting up, he’ll just punch you again. Even with aura, that fucking hurts. “She’s not on her own, Tai. She’s got the Arc boy with her. I talked to him, he’s got a good head on his shoulders. And the rest of his team will be there. She won’t be alone.”

 

The words _not like Summer_ remain unsaid, but their presence fills their air between you nevertheless. Somehow that’s enough for Taiyang; maybe he’s afraid to push the issue with you so soon after the last incident, or maybe he has faith in your judgment. Whatever the case, he seems satisfied, reaching down and yanking you back to your feet. You grumpily brush the dirt and snow off your cape.

 

“I want you to talk to Yang,” he says suddenly. “I’m worried about her. I thought she’d be more willing to engage now that Ruby’s awake, but...”

 

But you just sent Ruby to another continent.

 

He goes on. “I know she said…” A long sigh and then, “Well, just try? I don’t know what else to do.”

 

“Yeah.” You’ll do what you can to clean up your mess.

 

…

 

“I told you to leave me alone,”  Yang fumes as you open the door. She sits propped up in bed, staring despondently at a dent in the wall across the room. “Please, just… leave.”

 

You ignore her instruction, instead taking a seat at the foot of her bed. “I made coffee,” you tell her. “You take it the same way, right? Cream and two sugars?” She doesn’t respond, so you set it within easy reach on the nightstand to her left.

 

The two of you sit in silence for a minute, one broken only by your periodic coffee slurps.

 

Come on, Yang. You’re nervous, she’s sullen. It’s not a winning combination.

 

You wish you’d made more of a plan before coming in here. For some reason, you never thought you would need a script to deal with your niece. You know you should be saying something, but you’re so afraid to say the wrong thing.

 

You know better than most how much a careless word can hurt.

 

Turning over your options, you decide on something reasonably safe, something that avoids all the issues but might cheer Yang up a little. An adventure story, a tale from one of your missions with the undercurrent of a forbidden romance. It’s sort of your go-to story setup, not only because of the way it falls directly out of your average day at work, but because of how your nieces eat it up. Ruby always loves the action, the suspense, and the detailed descriptions of other hunter’s weaponry. Yang, at least since she became old enough to appreciate such things, is always inspired by the drama and seduction aspects of your yarn.

 

“I don’t think I’ve told you this story before,” you start, “but a few years back, a couple people from Atlas Academy spent about a month at Signal. I don’t remember exactly why they were there, maybe recruiting or something, but-”

 

Yang interrupts you. “You always tell these bullshit stories, Qrow.”

 

While this isn’t the kind of engagement you were looking for, well, at least she’s talking. Now your problem is how to keep her that way.

 

“What’s that?”

 

“You just say a whole lot of nothing. Never any names or places, just you and your happy little adventures. You just say stuff to hear yourself say it, like you’re afraid of what’ll happen if you let anyone think for a minute.”

 

She’s not wrong. “I just wanted to try to-”

 

“Cheer me up? I guess dad told you to talk to me?”

 

“Well, I thought-”

 

“Look, I get that you think you need to be here, that you won’t just leave me alone. Just…”

 

“Don’t tell you a bullshit story,” you complete. You understand well enough; Yang’s tired of being treated with kid gloves. “Alright, I can do that.”

 

In some ways, this makes your job easier. You know what it is you need to say to her, you were just worried about the delivery. But now, she’s more or less told you to give it to her straight.

 

“Back when I was at Beacon, there was a team one year senior to us. You’ve met three of them-- Glynda, Barty, and Jimmy. Or I guess you’d know them as Professors Goodwitch and Oobleck, then General Ironwood.”

 

Yang sits up a little straighter in her bed, but doesn’t say anything. You wonder if she knows where this story’s going.

 

“Yeah, yeah, we go way back. I guess that’s why we get on each other’s nerves so easily; we had a bit of a rivalry, you know.

 

“Their last team member was a girl named Cirrus, I don’t remember her last name. She was a tall, leggy redhead, used this massive, super ornate high-caliber revolver-- it had this cirrus cloud pattern etched onto the slide-- and when she shot the damn thing it could rip a man in half.

 

“And that’s exactly what happened.

 

“It was halfway through my second year, their third, on one of those training missions where you shadow a real hunter. Things got bad, the huntsman they were with got injured somehow and the team had to fight their way back to the extraction point. I don’t know all of the details but I do know the result.

 

“When you’re out on the battlefield, your judgement can become clouded in an instant. Sometimes… you see things-”

 

“That simply aren’t there,” recites Yang. “His teammate shot him and he lost his arm?” There’s edge to her voice, subtle enough that you almost miss it.

 

“Half his goddamned body, Yang. They say if the bullet had hit him an inch to the left, he’d have  died instantly. As it was, Glynda was able to use her telekinesis to hold him together long enough for the doctors and the engineers to cobble him back together. They told him he barely be able to walk, that he’d never hunt again.

 

“He took that as a challenge. He did his rehabilitation, he came back to Beacon, and he graduated with Glynda and Barty. They told him he’d put himself in the grave doing that, but look at him now. Headmaster of Atlas Academy, one of the Atlesian military’s top brass; the man’s never taken anything lying down, let me tell ya. I’ve got a lot of respect for him.”

 

Yang’s forehead furrows. “What happened to his teammate Cirrus?”

 

You wince. That’s a question you wish she hadn’t asked. “She… couldn’t deal with the guilt,” you confess. “She left Beacon, even though Jimmy forgave her. He still uses her gun to this day.”

 

You’re so caught up in your own thoughts, remembering the first major tragedy you’d been exposed to over your hunting career. Cirrus Sienna, the girlfriend of James Ironwood, couldn’t live with the guilt so she died with it. You’re surprised you were able to discuss Jimmy’s accident so coherently-- maybe that’s the protection one extra degree of separation grants you, but even then you can’t deny the impact that whole situation has on you.

 

The burn of cheap whisky helps you drown that out, though.

 

 _Wait, what_.

 

You look at your hands, surprised. Your flask’s somehow replaced the coffee mug you were holding. Are you such a drunk that the action is automatic? You didn’t even notice you were drinking. You know what people say about you, hell, Glynda says it to your face: “He’s always drunk.” Is it true? You never thought so in the past, but what if you’ve just been drinking, what if you’ve just never stopped. What if you’re numb and you can’t tell the difference anymore?

 

What’s the point of Qrow Branwen then?

 

A sudden loud crash jerks you out of your existential crisis. You snap to attention, honing in instantly on the source of the disturbance. Your niece sits upright in her bed, her one good arm outstretched at her side, her fist embedded three inches into the surface of her nightstand.

 

 _It’s clear she’s inherited Taiyang’s strength_ , you reflect as your eyes take stock of the damage. The two abandoned coffee mugs now lay shattered on the floor, their lukewarm contents pooling at your feet. You reign in a sigh. _And none of his self-control._

 

“So she ran?” Yang asks the question coldly, her voice betraying none of her obvious rage.

 

“Well,” you hedge, trying to keep things from going off the rails here. “The moral of the story was more from the general’s side. That you can recover, that you can pick yourself up and keep going. That you can’t let this injury dominate you. The point, Yang, the point is not to run and hide.”

 

She lets slip this horrible laugh, cutting and low, rattling and hollow. There’s no humor in it at all, just pain, just suffering; it’s the laugh of someone who means to cry but just can’t let themselves do it. “That’s rich, you know? Coming from you of all people.” She carefully extracts her hand from the ruined nightstand and watches as her fiery aura purges the wooden splinters from her skin.

 

“All you’ve ever done is run,” she goes on.  “Hell, you’re doing it right now. Running right into the bottle.”

 

You make a point to screw the lid of your flask on tight, much tighter than necessary, then you shove it into your hip pocket.

 

“Maybe the only person _less_ qualified to lecture me about running away from my problems is Blake.

 

“So what?” You rebut, “Maybe I’m not the best role model. I never said I was. You don’t want to end up like me, kid. A washed up has-been, an alcoholic good-fer-nothin’; it’s about as sorry as it gets, really.” Maybe you’re being a little harsh on yourself, but it sure doesn’t feel that way. Maybe this is that self-loathing of yours, the stuff you try to keep under lock and key, just bubbling up to the surface. You try to shrug it off, you tell yourself that these are the words you’re saying for the benefit of your niece, to encourage to get back on her feet.

 

Yang starts to say something but thinks better of it, swallowing her words after looking at you for a long second. You wonder if there’s a little too much honesty in what you’ve said, if she saw that and decided she couldn’t argue with the sad and sorry truth.

 

Is that what everyone see when they look at you?

 

Your hand begins to inch towards your pocket again but you’re so aware of it now. More importantly, you know Yang’s aware of it. You try to convince yourself that you have some sort of duty to bear this stoically, to set a good example. _If you give in now_ , whispers your conscience, _you might as well hand her a flask of her own and tell her to drink up, numb her pain._

 

Taiyang would never forgive you.

 

Summer would never forgive you.

 

Even after all these years, your dear leader’s approval is something you desperately seek.

 

The tension in the bedroom is so thick you think you can see it, clogging up the air, making everything a little blurry. No, you realize, the liquid pooling in the corners of your eyes is responsible for that particular phenomenon. You try not to let your niece see, you need to be strong for her, so you turn away.  As the first tear reaches its critical mass and slips freely down your face, you try to subtly catch it on your sleeve.

 

You don’t succeed.

 

“I get it,” Yang says eventually. “You really do want to help me. Thanks… I guess. But this, whatever this is, it’s not what I need.”

 

The words stumble out of your mouth. “What can I do, then?”

 

She answers immediately. “Stop running. Show me you can do that, and I’ll believe that I can too.”

 

“I don’t know if I can do-”

 

“Tell me a story, uncle, about my mother. About Summer, I mean, not Raven.”

 

Maybe that’s the most difficult thing she could have asked you to do. Somehow, she’s found the one thing in your life you’re the most afraid to face and demanded you overcome it. You want to run, more than ever, but Yang’s got you cornered now. You wonder if she knows that.

 

It turns out that she does.

 

“The walls in this house aren’t that thick,” she explains. It’s a bit of a non-sequitur; it takes you an awkward moment to figure out what she means by that statement.

 

And then it clicks. “You heard everything.” It’s not a question.

 

She answers it nonetheless. “I understand exactly what I’m asking of you, just like I think you understand what it is you’re asking me to do.”

 

You mull over the decision before you.

 

It’s hard, sure, but it’s been more than twenty years since you realized that Summer Rose would never love you the way you loved her, more than a decade since you failed her and she lost her life. Maybe it’s time for you to move forward. Maybe you finally can move forward.

 

“Alright, Yang.” You turn to face her, taking her hand in your own. “We’ll both stop running, then.” Yang’s face mirrors your own, her eyes glinting with tears that have yet to fall.

 

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly. It’s okay. You can do this.

 

“The first thing you need to know about Summer Rose is that everybody who ever met her fell instantly in love with her.”

 

…

 

**III.**

 

…

 

It’s close to the end of spring when you finally visit the grave.

 

It’s gorgeous, just the way you remember it from the last time you were here. The only time you were here.

 

You haven’t visited since you helped to put Summer in the ground all those years ago.

 

“Hey,” you say to the headstone. It’s easier than you thought it would be; you can just speak the word and nothing happens. Obviously, you were hardly expecting it to respond. You had, however, braced yourself for the soul-crushing despair that you’ve been fleeing for so long. It’s absence is almost as discomfiting.

 

“It’s been awhile, Summer. Twelve long years.”

 

You tear your eyes away from the burning rose emblem and stare out into the ocean. Far in the distance, the russet orange sun lowers itself into the calm waters, painting the sky a spectrum of vivid violets and rapturous reds. For a long moment, you lose yourself in the sight, letting the natural tranquility transport you beyond your all too human woes. You open your mouth once more and let the words come as they will.

 

“A lot has happened since we last spoke. Your girls, they’re so strong now. Ruby’s off saving the world, you know? She’s just like you. Everything she says, everything she does… Do you remember the day we met?”

 

It’s the story you ran from, you think you’re ready to face it now.

 

“During initiation, Summer, when Taiyang lit the forest on fire. You came rushing into the blaze to save him, even though he didn’t need saving at all. It was so reckless, so dangerous, so completely at odds with the shy and thoughtful… the rational and cautious Summer we got to know eventually. But in that moment, it was the true Summer Rose peeking out from behind her hood and…”

 

You don’t feel the need to hide your tears today; they flow freely down your face, skirting the edges of your gentle smile. There’s nobody here but you and Summer, nobody who doesn’t know exactly who and what you are.

 

“It was in that moment that I fell in love with you. And I know that’s when Taiyang fell for you too, and hell if I know what Raven thinks but… well, I bet she fell in love with you before then.”

 

You pull your focus back to the granite slab. “And Yang, she’s struggled so much, and now she’s overcome so much adversity. She’s on her feet again, she’s got a new arm, and she’s ready to go out and get her team back together. I’ve been helping her, and you know, she’s been helping me. If it wasn’t for your eldest daughter, I doubt I’d be here today.

 

“She’s going to be okay, I know it.”

 

Running your hand over the words you’d had them carve into the cool granite, you remember exactly what it is you’ve spent the last dozen years running from. _Thus kindly I scatter_ reads the epitaph, an allusion to the vow you’d made to her so long ago.

 

_(I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one!_

_To pine on the stem;_

_Since the lovely are sleeping,_

_Go, sleep thou with them._ )

 

“I won’t fail them, Summer, I won’t fail either of them. Not the way I failed you. You needed me and I ran. But I won’t run anymore.”

 

Your practiced hand smoothly withdraws the bottle you always run to, that damnable flask. You haven’t carried it for months, though, consigning it to your sock drawer after your discussion with Yang in lieu of anything better to do with it. You’ve put a lot of memories into this bottle, after all, and it’s hard to see it go.

 

Flicking the cap open, you pour them out onto the ground along with the foul amber liquid-- that distilled devil you’ve fed your life to. As it runs empty, you screw the lid shut once more and let your eyes feast on the container-- for that’s all it is now-- one last time. Tracing the patterns in the familiar wear and tear, the patina that tells the story of your life, you whisper one last word. “Goodbye.”

 

Then you hurl it with all your strength forward, off the edge of the cliff. You follow with your eyes the graceful arc it makes as it travels across the setting sun before coming to rest amongst the waves. It’s over, it’s done.

  
“I promise, I won’t run any more.”

**Author's Note:**

> That was kind of an emotional journey for me. I hope that maybe I’ve managed to drag you along beside me.
> 
> This might be the third thing I’ve written that addresses depression and alcoholism as an escape route, so I wanted to go ahead and apologize if this hits too close to home for any of my readers. It’s not a joking matter and I hope to treat the struggle with the dignity it deserves. I guess, maybe obviously, I write about these kinds of subjects because I find them difficult and important to deal with through other means. I’ve used Qrow for this a lot, in the other Stark White ‘verse stories: Stark White and Winter’s Warning. In both of those, the story is told from another character’s perspective (Summer and Winter, respectively) and Qrow is basically portrayed as a slave to his impulses and his grief.
> 
> Though I’ve written a bit of lighthearted young Qrow, I’ve never really tried to redeem the adult Qrow. I know that moving forward is a part of life, but I never thought there was a story in it that I wanted to tell. Until now. 
> 
> ...
> 
> Since one of the goals of Stark White was to end up as the canon RWBY universe by the time the show starts, at this point in the timeline the two are indistinguishable. 
> 
> The explicit only connections this has to Stark White are the following:  
> Everyone loved/loves Summer Rose  
> The death of Summer Rose is the most important event in RWBY for these characters  
> Qrow blames himself for not stopping Summer from chasing Raven. 
> 
> So basically, you don’t need to know anything about Stark White to understand the point of this story. Still, if you liked this, I hope you check out the rest of the series. 
> 
> …
> 
> Yang’s dialogue was really difficult for me to write, that took me longer than anything else in this fic. I just don’t have a voice in me that works for her normally, and after the volume three finale, I can’t even work with her usual perky and punny voice. I felt like I did okay with it in Pretty Hate Machine II, but she only had one line and… yeah. That also takes place a full year later, after everything’s gone to shit, and she’s a lot emptier. 
> 
> …
> 
> The poem in part III is, of course, part of The Last Rose of Summer by Thomas Moore. The infamous Thus kindly I scatter is the next line after the quoted selection. It’s a beautiful poem and unsurprisingly tragic; exactly what we expect every time canon RWBY gives us anything about Summer Rose. If you enjoy poetry and/or emotions, check it out. 
> 
> ...
> 
> Of course, this will be horrifically AU as soon as we learn how 1) Summer actually died, 2) Ironwood actually lost his body, 3) Yang actually gets her groove back.
> 
> …
> 
> And hey, thanks.


End file.
